“Then marry me, Nadya.” He caressed her wrist with his thumb. “It will not be a prison—I promise you. If you but let me, I will be your wings.”

A million thoughts warred across her face like a battlefield, and he couldn’t be sure which would win. Hope . . . or fear? But at last her eyes slid shut, she drew in a breath, and she leaned toward him. “I trust you, Zhenya. I . . . I will marry you. If you’ll have me.”

If he weren’t still so weak, he may have leapt up and danced. Instead, he grinned. “I will have you, milaya moya.”

“Well. We can take care of that before you leave England, if you like.”

At the unfamiliar voice, Evgeni startled. He hadn’t even noticed the man hovering in the doorway, but he was without doubt a Russian. The long beard gave him away as surely as the smoothly spoken words. Evgeni looked to his brother, who was chuckling.

Zivon waved toward the older man. “Allow me to introduce Father Evgeny Smirnov.”

Evgeni breathed a laugh. He’d known his brother would find any Orthodox church to be found. “A good name.”

“I was thinking the same of yours.” The priest grinned and lifted his brows. “So? A wedding before you go?”

Evgeni looked to Nadya. This certainly wasn’t what they’d planned. Not in general, not when they came to England. Not when they’d plotted how to render Zivon neutral. But it also wasn’t what he’d expected if the mission went wrong. He’d thought there would be death, or arrest. Fleeing in the dead of night, perhaps. Defeat.

This was no defeat, even if it wasn’t the victory he’d expected. It was better. Thanks, he knew, to his brother’s bargaining for them.

That was Zivon. Always needing to be the one moving the game pieces. Always anticipating the patterns and reacting to them.

Always taking care of him.

Nadya finally moved her arm. Put her fingers in his. And nodded.

A click. A whir. And his brother’s laugh.

“What?” Lily grinned. “I wasn’t about to let that moment go uncaptured.”

29

WEDNESDAY, 6 NOVEMBER 1918

Do you have it yet, milaya?”

Lily pushed away from her retouching desk, smiling over at the door. Zivon leaned into the doorframe, eyes bright behind his glasses. “You mean since you were last sent down to ask ten whole minutes ago?”

His smile sent a lovely wave of warmth flowing through her. She’d thought it would ease by now, but it seemed the opposite had happened. Every time she saw him—especially when it was unexpected—she was hit anew with how much she loved him. “The admiral is impatient. And I do not mind being his errand boy in this case, as well he knows.”